by Mark Romain
“Another message,” Jack said, stating the obvious. “This time he’s signed off as ‘Jack the New Ripper’. I wonder if he actually thinks he’s a descendant of Jack the Ripper, or maybe even his reincarnation.”
“He’s taunting us, Jack. That’s what he’s doing,” Dillon said quietly, his voice thick with frustration.
“I know. But our turn will come, despite the interference from those two prats outside. Let’s not mention any of this to them, okay.”
“You got it, guv,” Bartholomew said quietly.
Dillon just grunted. He was beginning to feel very queasy, surrounded by so much blood and gore. It was almost enough to make him consider becoming a vegetarian.
“I don’t know if it’s relevant or not, guv, but the first message he left, the one in Quaker Street, was all written in capital letters. Well, look at this one. It’s a mixture of caps and small letters,” Bartholomew pointed out. Jack studied the message again, wondering why he hadn’t spotted the difference.
“You’re right, Nick. Well spotted! Mind you, until we get it photographed, and the two messages are compared by a handwriting specialist, we won’t know whether or not the deviation in styles helps us any.”
As they turned to leave the increasingly oppressive room, the torchlight flickered across a rickety table in the far corner, making its shadow dance up the side of the wall like a distorted phantom. Dillon noticed dark shapes on its surface, and he made a reluctant detour to check them out. “Oh my God, Jack. You’d better take a look at this.” Neatly arranged on the dust-covered table were what remained of the girl’s internal organs, which had been carefully removed from the now empty carcass.
As Jack edged forward for a closer inspection, a large brown, oily shape shot out from beneath the table, disappearing into the shadows by the hall door. All three men recoiled at the sudden movement and Tyler took an instinctive step backward, bumping into Dillon’s arm. “Shit! I hate those damn things.”
Dillon shone the dragon light back and forth, up and down, until he was satisfied that the room was clear of rodents. When he finally let it settle on the organs again, he saw that one – was that a heart? – had at least two big lumps missing from it.
“I think it’s been partially eaten,” Tyler said, struggling to keep his voice even. The culprit was presumably the rat that had just fled.
“We need to get the crime scene guys in here, pronto,” Dillon said. “While there’s still something left of the victim to preserve.”
Bartholomew felt something drip on his face. He placed his hand on Dillon’s arm, guiding the beam of light towards the ceiling. “Now what…?” Dillon demanded, and Jack could hear the unease in his voice. Bartholomew pointed upwards. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Above their heads, the remainder of the dead girl’s intestines had been wrapped around the empty light socket in the ceiling, draped across the room like make-do Christmas decorations, and then fastened to the boarded-up window.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bartholomew muttered, sickened by the rooms organised carnage. This was the work of a demon, not a man.
“None of us have,” Tyler informed him, his voice brittle.
They returned to the street and the luxury of fresh air. Other members of the squad were already arriving, having been dispatched from the incident room by Murray.
Copeland headed straight over to Dillon, carrying a decision log. “I thought you might be in need of one of these,” he said, waving the log in the air.
“What? Oh, thanks.” Dillon said, relieving him of the decision log. He was tempted to tell George that what he was really in need of was a double brandy.
“You alright, boss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Copeland was surprised; he couldn’t imagine too many things upsetting Dillon.
“Fine, George, fine. The smell in there is a little overpowering, that’s all,” Dillon explained, blowing the tiger-balm from his nose.
Copeland nodded his understanding. As an advanced exhibits officer, he knew all about bad smells. “The forensic team has been called out, and the FME will be here within the hour. What do you want me to do first?”
“Make sure that uniform lad’s doing the scene log properly, please, George. Usual routine: record the details of everyone going in or out of the crime scene, along with times and reasons. Get him to show me, Nick and the DCI as going in fifteen minutes ago and coming out now.” He checked his watch to confirm the exact times.
“Oh, and there are a couple of civvies who went in before our arrival. Make sure he’s got their details. Also, we need to arrange enough lighting for several rooms as a matter of urgency and to make sure we have enough evidence bags and glass jars for a lot of exhibits. Oh yeah, we’ll need a fucking great big net as well.”
“Net?” Copeland sounded perplexed. “What do we need a big net for?”
“To catch the oversized rats that are dining on our victim, George,” he said patting Copeland’s arm.
“You’re joking!” Copeland exclaimed, his jaw dropping.
“You’ll see for yourself in a minute. Someone’s going to have to stand guard in there, and who better than our best exhibits officer? Oh, and George, take my advice and tuck your trousers into your socks; it’ll stop them running up your leg.” He winked at Copeland who was looking rather pale.
Just then Dillon caught sight of Bartholomew. “Are you feeling okay, me old mate? You know, after going in there?” He studied Bartholomew’s face carefully.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Bartholomew said in a shaky voice. “But if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to go back in.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve done your bit. But I do need you to start the initial door-to-door enquiries. And tell the locals to set up a second cordon thirty yards back from the first one. That should be enough to protect the scene.” As he spoke a couple of Panda cars pulled up, providing some much-needed additional resources.
“No problems, boss. Leave it to me. Just let me know what the DCI says to those poxy reporters, will you?” Nick said, breaking into a weak grin,
“Count on it.” Dillon patted him on the arm and made his way back to Tyler.
“I’ve got the ball rolling here, Jack. And George has brought you a present.” He handed the carbonated decision log to Tyler.
“Oh, great,” Tyler said, “as if I haven’t got enough paperwork already.”
“Now, what are we going to do about these two, so called, journalists?” Dillon demanded.
Tyler smiled spitefully. “I think it’s time we taught them both a lesson,” he suggested, unzipping his white paper suit.
Kelly had moved the two ‘newsies’ out of the inner cordon. The three women were standing beside an old shape red Volkswagen Golf, which was parked a few doors down from the murder scene. Steve Bull was with them. “Morning,” he said, nodding solemnly.
Tyler nodded back, curtly. “Stevie.”
Dillon patted the smaller man’s shoulder. “Nice to see that you’re in a better mood today,” he whispered.
“Did you find it?” Terri asked uneasily. She was careful to avert her gaze from Tyler’s piercing stare.
“Yes, Miss Miller, we found ‘it’.”
“Please, call me Terri. This is Julie. I’m sorr –”
“Miss Miller,” Jack cut in harshly, “which one of you threw up in there?” He scrutinised each one in turn, impatiently awaiting a reply.
“I – I’m afraid it was me,” Julie began. “It’s very embarrassing but I….”
“Have either of you moved the body at all?” Tyler continued.
“Not exactly,” Terri said, evasively.
“What do you mean: ‘not exactly’?” Dillon demanded.
“It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see in the dark and I…well, I kind of kicked the head when I tripped and…” Julie Payne bit her lip as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Bloody hell,” Dillon muttered under his breath. Th
e two women were like a female version of Abbott and Costello; they couldn’t do anything right.
Terri put a protective arm around Julie as the photographer began to cry again.
Jack rolled his eyes and looked up to the heavens, wondering if, in some unknown way, he had offended God and was now being punished for it. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, feeling the tiny bristles tickle the palm of his hand. “I need to know which one of you rolled around in the victim’s blood.” When neither one answered immediately, he continued: “Let me guess. That would also be you, Miss…?” he raised an accusing eyebrow at Julie.
“P – Payne. Julie Payne.” Her voice, as she bowed her head in shame, was barely audible.
“Hah!” Dillon barked mirthlessly. “Payne by name: pain in the arse by nature!”
Tyler shot him a warning look.
“Really!” Terri protested. “I don’t think that’s very nice, Inspector.” If no one else was going to stand up for Julie then she would. After all, it was because of her that Julie was there.
“Your trouble is that you just don’t think,” Dillon told her. Terri opened her mouth to argue but closed it again, realising that she was in a no-win situation. Instead, she crossed her arms in furious defiance.
“Miss Payne, can you remove your coat so that I can examine your clothing, please,” Tyler asked. He spoke gently to avoid distressing her further. He was beginning to realise that Julie had been coerced into taking part in this foolish episode, probably against her better judgement. With Kelly’s help, Julie struggled out of the three-quarter-length leather coat she had donned shortly after fleeing the house. Terri had insisted that she put it on to keep warm, knowing it would help battle the shock that was setting in.
The detectives immediately saw that her jeans and sweatshirt were saturated with blood. Dillon gave a derisive sigh and shook his head in exasperation. These two had pretty much destroyed his crime scene.
“We’re going to have to ask you both to come back to the station. We’ll need to take your clothing and then fingerprint and swab you. We’ll also want detailed statements,” Tyler stated as calmly as he could under the circumstances.
“What!” Terri exclaimed. “Can’t we do that later? I’ve got a deadline to meet. Surely it can wait a little while?” She had an exclusive to file, and this was so…inconvenient.
“Miss Miller, you can either come back as a witness, under your own steam, or as a prisoner on charges of obstruction and perverting the course of justice. It’s entirely your choice.” Tyler’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a subject that was up for discussion.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Terri said defiantly.
Tyler’s eyes hooded. “Try me.”
“I’m coming,” Julie said, emphasising her surrender by raising both bloodstained hands in a melodramatic fashion. Terri gave her a traitorous look, at the same time calculating whether Tyler really would detain her if she refused to go of her own accord.
“Miss Miller?” Jack enquired, testily.
Terri realised it was time to put up or shut up. “Aw, shit!” For a woman whose private education had cost her parents a considerable sum of money, she capitulated most ungraciously.
CHAPTER 22
The two women were conveyed to Whitechapel police station in separate vehicles. Their escorts were under strict instructions not to speak to them, and the journey was completed in an uncomfortable silence, which did little to improve Terri Miller’s mood.
When they arrived, they were photographed in their clothing, which was then seized, and they were fingerprinted and swabbed for DNA. Then they were placed in separate interview rooms and left to stew for another three-quarters of an hour. They were not offered refreshments. Nor were they given an indication as to how long they would be required. Whenever they asked what was going on, which in Miller’s case was about every five minutes, they were given the same answer: “I’m sorry miss, but DCI Tyler is very busy right now. Someone will be along to see you in due course.”
By the time Dillon and Evans arrived to take her statement, Terri was feeling utterly deflated. This, of course, was precisely what the detectives had intended. She told them about the mysterious man in her building, the meat-filled box he’d left outside her apartment, her shock at discovering the snapshots and how she had thought the whole thing was probably a hoax.
Terri played down her scheme to check out the house before involving the police. She claimed she was motivated by a desire to prevent the emergency services from having their time wasted, not a selfish craving to get a story at any cost. Dillon noticed she couldn’t meet their eye when she said that. Her narration ended with the arrival of the first patrol car and the murder squad officers themselves.
At one point, about halfway through recording her statement, Dillon abruptly stood up and walked out of the interview room, his square jaw set tightly. Miller, who was halfway through a sentence at the time, had no idea why he had left so suddenly. She assumed that he needed to communicate urgently with one of his colleagues. She thought that Dillon’s conduct was extremely rude, but based on her limited experience of the man she concluded it was probably typical of him.
In truth, Dillon had left because he was on the verge of losing his temper with her, and that would have been highly unprofessional, especially as the interview was being taped.
He returned to the sparsely furnished room five minutes later, having regained his composure. He offered no explanation for his absence and continued the interrogation expertly.
In a nearby room, Bull and Flowers were conducting a similar interview with Julie Payne. She was faring much better than Terri, having been less antagonistic at the scene. During the interview she spoke candidly, holding nothing back. It soon became apparent that she had been an unwilling accomplice. At the end of the interview, Steve arranged for the locals to drop her off in Hanbury Street so that she could collect her car. She promised to contact them if anything new came to light.
◆◆◆
By the time they pulled up outside the apartment block where Terri lived, the cool bag had been sitting in her living room for over six hours.
“Nice place, I suppose, but not my cup of tea,” Flowers said, addressing Miller’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Couldn’t afford it anyway, kiddo, not on what they pay us,” Paul Evans said as he opened his door.
In the back, Miller was smarting about her replacement clothing: an ill-fitting, all-in-one paper suit and cheap black plimsolls that were two sizes too big. She looked like an escaped convict. “I’ll sue you if anyone sees me looking like this,” she threatened the back of Flowers' head as the detective switched the engine off.
The rear child locks were on so Evans had to open the rear door to let Miller out. “There you go, Miss Miller,” he said.
Terri slid out of the Astra in silence. She prayed the concierge would be busy in his little office and the foyer would be deserted. She would simply die of embarrassment if anyone she knew saw her looking like that. As she reached the halfway point between the car and the foyer, a black Porsche 911 convertible, its engine purring, glided to a halt next to the Astra. Cursing under her breath she raised her hand up to shield her face and increased the length of her step. “Hey Teresa, nice threads!” the driver shouted, studying her strange attire with amusement.
Tears of anger pricked Miller’s eyes, and she thought she would simply die of shame. “I told you we should have used the back entrance,” she complained, keeping her head bowed. “This is so embarrassing.” Walking as briskly as she could without making her discomfort too obvious, Terri ignored the Porsche driver and focused on reaching the entrance.
Kelly glanced back inquisitively. The man sitting behind the wheel of the sports car was in his late twenties and deeply tanned. Not a single gelled hair was out of place. He wore an expensive blue silk shirt with matching red tie and braces. A thick gold bracelet dangled from his wrist as he waved at the reporter. “Cute,�
� she said approvingly.
“What? Him?” Paul Evans asked, surprised.
“No, silly, the car,” Kelly corrected him with an impish grin. Compared to the five-year-old Renault that she owned, the Porsche was positively sex on wheels. As for the driver, well she had her heart fixed on a real man; not some jumped up yuppie. She would leave that sort to the Terri Millers of this world.
“Do you know that bloke in the car then, Miss Miller?” Evans asked as he caught up with Terri. She ignored the question. “Look, he’s waving at you. Don’t you think you ought to wave back?” he persisted.
“Oh, shut up!” Terri snapped at him. She had never been so humiliated in all her life. As they reached the communal entrance Evans dropped back a tad, falling into step with his colleague.